Five Times Hiruma Yoichi Left Someone Speechless
by hadaka
Summary: And one when he didn't.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer:** Do. Not. Own.

**Warnings:** Very slight spoiler for Chapter 333. Also, this is **yaoi**.

**Summary:** Five occasions on which Hiruma Yoichi left someone speechless. And one where he didn't.

* * *

Kobayakawa Sena is a fucking brat.

Cowardly, spineless, and too easy to push around, no fucking _question_ why he's every bully's bitch wherever he goes. Short, scrawny, nothing to him but a pair of legs, and this fucking brat should get on his hands and fucking knees and praise God every fucking day that at least he has one thing to save him from being a walking, talking flaw.

All big, watery eyes, _always_ leaking. A voice that's permanently set to whine. Yoichi wonders sometimes how he can stand it. He has to grit his teeth when Sena is talking to him, has to bite down hard on nothing and keep his hands to himself, because he wants to just—just reach out and wrap his fingers around Sena's fucking _neck_ and—

All this _fear_. All this _uncertainty_. How does Sena get out of fucking bed in the morning? How does he manage to keep breathing? Does Anezaki chew his food for him too? Does she dress him in the morning? Pick out his clothes, all things she probably bought him, drag him into sitting position on the bed, his hair tousled and his eyes still soft and dreaming, pull the shirt he wore to sleep over his head and—

Fucking brat. Fucking idiot, a brain incapable of serious thought. Without capacity for strategy, tactics, concentration, discipline, guile, lies, spite, malicious intent, scheming—

Useless. So uselessly _open_. As if that fucking brat doesn't have anything to hide, like he thinks honesty and kindness and that hopeless, _crippling_ hunger for the happiness of others will actually get him somewhere in life.

Yoichi won't say that he needs Sena. Because he doesn't. Sena is just—useful. _Convenient_. His running is what's important, that distinctive, superhuman run, honed to a sharp, whetted edge, the only thing about him that Yoichi can stand to think about. He doesn't think about Sena any other way. He doesn't think about Sena's address, the house that Mihae and Shiyuma Kobayakawa bought twenty years ago when Shiyuma was promoted at work and Mihae was pregnant with an older brother Sena didn't get to have. He doesn't think about how Sena keeps a cat because he was too afraid of dogs as a child, how his favorite sweet is _dorayaki_ and he is the kind of idiot who actually offers to help creepy _obaasan_s cross the street. He doesn't think about the streets Sena takes to school, or the route along the river where Sena jogs every day, a route that is becoming suspiciously crowded with other _amefuto_ players. He doesn't think about the girl in Class 4 who leaves cute packages of cookies in Sena's shoe locker every now and then, cookies that Sena doesn't know about because—

Yoichi doesn't think about any of these things, because the very idea of Sena makes him nauseous. Sick. He can't think about Sena without his fingers tightening into fists, he wants to knock some sense into the fucking brat _so fucking much_.

Then Shin Seijuro tackles Sena to the ground.

A flawless block. The look of shock on Sena's face, that he can't hide. The expression on Shin's face, somewhere between determined and brainless.

Shin's arms around Sena's waist. Shin's body, larger and heavier, pressing down against Sena's, the weight pinning Sena to the ground.

A—glimpse—of something, then, on Shin's face. Something different. Something newer.

And _murder_, a teeth-gnashing whisper of violence and intent to hurt, crawling down Yoichi's arms, to clench his hands into white-knuckled fists.

_No,_ Yoichi says to himself.


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer:** Do. Not. Own.

* * *

Yoichi can see through Jyuumonji Kazuki like he's a fucking window.

The blonde fucker is glaring at him. He doesn't even look nervous. "You got something to say to me, Hiruma?" says Jyuumonji, and sort of—pulls his shoulders back, his weight on the balls of his feet.

He's big for a first year.

Sometimes, especially in recent days, Yoichi almost manages to not remember that Jyuumonji is a delinquent, a veteran of youthful brutality and at least a few knife fights. In this case, the linebacker actually looks as if he's prepared to throw down, which is intriguing considering that Yoichi hasn't even threatened him yet. He looks almost defiant, as if _wants_ Yoichi to make a move.

From these—his eyes, his stance, his jutting jaw and squared shoulders—Yoichi can hear, as if Jyuumonji had spat it in his face, _I don't give a shit about any fucking photos, asshole._

And just like that, the dynamic of their association...shifts.

Yoichi glances toward the field. Jyuumonji's eyes follow his.

Sena is lying in the grass beside the bench, his hair slicked to his skin with sweat. He's on his back, eyes closed and mouth open as he gasps, and he seems very unaware of how his shirt is pulled up almost to the armpits. Now and then he groans and moves an arm or a leg, or lifts a hip to stretch a hurting muscle.

Jyuumonji's eyes are still on Sena, a look that is full of whispered things. Yoichi sees this, and some vague, unfamiliar feeling, something that is not quite hatred, not quite immediate violent reprisal, seethes in Yoichi's stomach.

Yoichi doesn't have to think about anything. He already knows where he stands on this issue, and it's time Jyuumonji does, too.

He steps in close, their shoulder guards almost brushing, and says, in a tone somewhere between boredom and warning, "Your father could _always_ be transferred back to Kyushu."

Jyuumonji's makes a strangled noise. He turns, face white and murder in his eyes, but Yoichi is already walking away, mouth stretched into his habitual grin.

The feeling subsides into a dull ache. Yoichi knows what it is.

When he passes Sena, the fucking brat looks up.

"Is something wrong?" he asks, looking concerned.

"No," says Yoichi—sharply. Sena's eyes widen, and the fucking brat looks apprehensive.

Yoichi needs to think.


	3. Chapter 3

**Disclaimer:** Do. Not. Own.

* * *

Predictably, it's the fucking manager who catches him.

Twenty-one seconds. For twenty-one seconds, Yoichi allows himself to be distracted. For twenty-one seconds, he isn't watching his laptop, the cameras, or the door. For twenty-one seconds, he eases his paranoid grip on total control of his immediate surroundings and isn't listening for footsteps, the latch, or Cerberus's growl.

For twenty-one seconds, all he looks at is Sena, stretched out on top of the table, shirt half-off and uniform pants nearly undone, blushing like no one but Kobayakawa Sena can blush, a wide-eyed look of something that's an amalgamate of arousal and shock and unwillingness and fear all in one face. All he hears is Sena's voice, stuttering somewhere between protest and moan, whispering a frantic _Hiruma-san, p-please don't!_ in one breath and groaning _nnnng_ against Yoichi's tongue the next.

Twenty-one seconds of Sena alternately pushing and shoving at him desperately while trying to get away and grabbing handfuls of Yoichi's shirt to keep him there and then Yoichi hears the door rattle.

Instead of a questioning shout, there's the clink of a key.

The door opens, and Yoichi can almost feel the scream building.

So he takes his mouth off of Sena's and looks up.

He's got a few ideas of what she's about to shriek. _Get away from him!_ maybe, or _What are you doing, pervert!_ or even _Rape!_ Any number of things could come out of her mouth, and any single one of them could have Sena shoving him off and out the door and out of his reach. He can feel Sena tensing below him even now, all the air sucked out of Sena's lungs by terror, and Yoichi resists the abrupt, almost painful impulse to sink his teeth and fingernails into the body below him.

Yoichi adjusts his grip, lifts his head, and looks straight at Anezaki.

She stops, mouth open, eyes wide, hands in front of her.

He looks at her.

Anezaki's mouth closes. She looks from him to Sena, from Sena to him. He can see exactly how the gears are turning in her brain.

Yoichi waits.

She—is trying to stay calm. Her wide eyes takes in Sena, who isn't struggling and isn't screaming, whose hands are clutching at Yoichi's shirt. She looks at Yoichi, who is holding Sena against him like he would a lover, Sena's face against his neck.

At Yoichi's hand, long-fingered and somehow protective, in Sena's hair.

She backs up, into the hot, late afternoon outside. Anezaki's hands are trembling, and she looks uncertain. Intelligent, but not canny. Anezaki always knows how to think, but not often what.

Yoichi bares his teeth.

She closes the door.

He can hear it locking.

Yoichi takes his other hand, the one the fucking manager couldn't see, off of Sena's neck.

Sena gasps for breath, falling back onto the table. He's white and shaking, and his neck is going to be bruised purple where Yoichi's thumb pressed down against his larynx.

"M-Mamo-nee?" he whispers. His eyes are filling with tears.

"No," says Yoichi.


	4. Chapter 4

**Disclaimer:** Do. Not. Own.

* * *

In the middle of the floor, in front of the small table laden with tea, Yoichi kneels.

He places his hands on the floor. He lowers his head until his dyed hair brushes the floor.

Kobayakawa Sena's parents are completely still.

"Please give me your son," Yoichi says to the floor. The words are stilted, awkward, and stick in his throat. He resists the urge to spit them out. "I will spend the rest of my life taking care of him. I can have no higher ambition than this."

He looks straight at the floor, his correctly positioned hands. He doesn't need to see to know how Sena is looking at him—the expression on his face.

Yoichi is _not_ going to get a boner in front of Sena's parents. This is humiliating enough.

Upstairs, the fucking cat won't stop yowling.

No one says anything. _Fuck,_ Yoichi thinks. It's not working. Sena's parents are about to throw him out on his ass, on his stupid fucking _face_, they're about to call the fucking cops because this fucking _pervert_ has been molesting their barely legal under prefecture law baby for three goddamn years, he's going to get thrown into jail and by the time he gets out on a criminal law technicality Sena's going to have run off to Hong Kong with that Yamato fucker or the goddamn stalker, Shin Seijuro, and then Yoichi is going to have to bribe and put the pressure on a _shit fucking ton_ of people just to get the cheating brat back and drag his two-timing ass home, unless it's Kongo he's run off with in which case Yoichi doesn't have to worry about anything anymore except how to dispose of his stock portfolio and corporate assets because it's going to be a clearcut case of murder-suicide—

In front of him, someone moves, raising a hand or turning a head, maybe, and suddenly all the tension is gone.

"Yoichi," a woman's voice says—low, moved, trembling with tears. "Don't you—you don't think—you don't think it would be too difficult for—"

His head still bowed, Yoichi feels the corners of his mouth lift.

"No," he says.


	5. Chapter 5

**Disclaimer:** Do. Not. Own.

* * *

By the time Sena opens the door, Yoichi is so angry he can barely keep from punting the fucking brat across the room.

"Yoichi?" says Sena, eyes wide, and nearly goes down anyway when Yoichi dumps his bag on Sena's head.

While Sena struggles with the sports bag, which is half clothes, half ordnance, Yoichi stalks through each room of the shit apartment Sena lives in with the fucking _saru_. He kicks through piles of Monta's clothes, knocks over neat stacks of Sena's books, and causes a small landslide of _amefuto_ gear when he opens the closet. He checks the kitchen, peers into the washer, opens the refrigerator, and even lifts the cover off of the bowl they're calling a _furo_ in the bathroom.

By the time Sena has the bag over one shoulder and catches up, Yoichi is ransacking Monta's room.

"Yoichi!" protests Sena. "That's Monta's personal—"

Nothing in the closet. Nothing under the desk. Yoichi raises an eyebrow, leaves the room an even sorrier mess than he found it, and heads for Sena's room.

He empties the closet, nearly upends the desk, and kicks the folded futon into a corner. He rifles through the clothes drawers, making a derisive noise under his breath when he finds nothing. Then Yoichi stands in the middle of the trashed room and takes a long, irritated breath.

The pressure in his chest—eases. Slightly.

Sena is in the doorway, staring at him.

In a tone that tells Sena that he _will_ submit, Yoichi says, "Fucking brat, I'm moving in."

Sena's mouth opens. "What—but—you—"

Yoichi decides the closet is his. He needs somewhere to put the semi-automatics.

"But Saikyoudai," says Sena, beginning to sound a bit panicked, "the next semester starts tomorrow, what are you—"

"I transferred."

_"Transferred?"_ Sena says it like other people would say _Murdered_. "But you wanted—I mean, Yoichi, didn't you want to—"

Yoichi pauses. He's looking at an old Notre Dame playbook he just pulled off of the top shelf of the closet, and thinking that the English handwriting on it is not Sena's.

He'll transcribe the plays onto his laptop before he shreds it.

"No," says Yoichi.

Something on the desk catches his eye. He snatches it up, examining it with a narrow glare.

"Oh, that's for luck," says Sena faintly. "Kakei-san gave it to me for the exams the last time I—_ah_!"

Yoichi's opened the window and thrown the _omamori_ into the street.

"Y-Yoichi!" Sena rushes to the window, practically hanging over the ledge.

Yoichi sits on the folded futon and takes a black book from his pants.

"I can't believe you!" When he steps away from the window, Sena looks…exasperated. Perhaps even a bit angry. Maybe he _is_ growing up, into that face of his. "Just because Kakei-san gave it to me?"

Not taking his eyes off his book, Yoichi allows the corner of his mouth to pull up.

"Don't you trust me?" protests Sena, sounding hurt.

Yoichi raises his head and eyes Sena coolly.

"No," he says.


	6. Chapter 6

**Disclaimer:** Do. Not. Own.

* * *

The futon is about ten fucking sizes too small for Sena, much less the two of them. Yoichi's feet stick out from under the cover and he's calculating the logistics of fitting a human-sized futon into this storage closet the fucking midget calls a room.

Sena moans and pushes his head against Yoichi's side. It's awkward trying to type on the laptop with Sena's _disproportionately large_ head in the way, but Yoichi has had three years to get used to it. It's almost a habit to raise his elbow now, to the point where people look at him strangely whenever he is on the laptop by himself in public.

"Yoichi, go to sleeeeeep," Sena whines, as if he's fifteen all over again. He half opens his eyes and attempts a sleepy glare.

Yoichi thinks about throwing the fucking brat out of bed, making him go and sleep in the _furo_. He didn't _use_ to be this much of a nag. Yoichi is almost convinced that Sena is growing up into Anezaki. Any day now, he's going to buy a broom and run off with Yukimitsu. Then Yoichi will have to kill Yukimitsu, make it look like a horrible elevator accident, and put Anezaki's brats through university in payment for making her a widow.

Yoichi shuts his laptop. "Fucking brat."

Sena murmurs under his breath when Yoichi folds against him, when Yoichi pulls Sena's body into his and presses his face to Sena's hair. They'll lie like this until Sena can't bear the pressure, and then he will whimper and gasp and Yoichi will force himself to relax his grip, to ease the greedy clutch of his fingers and arms until Sena can breathe. He'll stay there, listening to Sena sleep and feeling each breath and movement of that smaller, yielding body until he's reassured himself that Sena can't go anywhere without waking him up, and only then, though Yoichi is exhausted, is so fucking tired he's even putting up with Sena's bitching, will Yoichi close his eyes and be able to sleep.

Sena sighs.

"You shouldn't quit Saikyoudai," he says softly in the dark. "I don't want you to regret it later."

Yoichi thinks about taking the train back to Saikyoudai. He thinks about sitting awake with his laptop long into the small hours, long past sanity, trying to think about anything but what Sena might be doing. He thinks about sleepless nights spent monitoring the GPS trackers he's hidden in almost every article of clothing and every pair of shoes that Sena owns, reassuring himself at thirty minute intervals that Sena is in his own room in his own apartment and not out who fucking knew where with who fucking knew who. He thinks about hearing from the fucking fatass that he and Sena went out for ramen that day with Jyuumonji down to visit from Saikyoudai, or from Raimon that Sena and Raitani had a blast on the Rock Band set that afternoon. He thinks about the fucker Yamato and the sharp, considering looks the fucker gives him every now and then, as if he's saying _Ah, Sena's alone this weekend, isn't he?_ He thinks about Ojou's Shin and how that emotionally stunted bastard never does anything but that he does it completely, and how Shin is the type who tends to _stay_ in love once he falls and not understand that there are times when you just have to accept that you're not going to fucking get what you want.

He thinks about the six months he spent not sleeping and not studying and not playing _amefuto_ as well as he should and instead sitting over his laptop every fucking minute of the day watching the small, blinking red light that represents Kobayakawa Sena and killing the seconds until he can get on a train.

"No," says Yoichi.

"I love you, too," murmurs Sena.

Yoichi—stiffens.

Sena yawns like a kitten and then his head grows heavy against Yoichi's shoulder.

Yoichi's eyes are wide. He feels something strange and unfamiliar in his chest, something that is somewhere between the floating, lightheaded feeling of a painkiller high and the crushing, breathless pressure of being sacked with the ball still in his hand.

He can't breathe. He grips Sena to him, tightly and mercilessly, until Sena groans a protest in his sleep.

Twenty-five thousand, two hundred, twenty-four hours, thirty-six minutes, and fifteen seconds.

Fucking Sena.

_No,_ he mouths into Sena's hair.

About fucking time.


End file.
